The Battle in the Palace & Out of the Freezer
by Avice.cr
Summary: Bored without a case Sherlock is forced to give in to the temptation of dreaming about John. But dreaming isn't enough any more. SLASH and there will also be HET when Greg feels lonely and finds out whether Molly can get over her infatuation with Sherlock. And more SLASH added. Incl. humour.
1. Chapter 1

**~WARNING: EXPLICIT SLASH~**

**~If you just want the het, skip to chapter 3~  
**

Boredom. It suffocated him. Experiments without a case - boring. Playing without a puzzle to solve - boring. Telly - dear god, how boring. Books, books, books - his mind ached. How John could read the paper so contently was - boring.  
"John! Find me a case! I need a case," he almost begged.

John browsed the paper.  
"The euro crisis?"  
"A _case_, not idiotics!"  
"Body found on a camping site?"

"John," he groaned, "you're not even trying. Why won't you even try? Please!"  
He fell on the sofa and turned his face to the wall moping. Nearly a week without a case.

And John constantly present, well, either him or Mrs. Hudson, so he couldn't stimulate his mind with illicit substances, nor licit for that matter. He probably wouldn't anyway, but if he were alone, at least resisting the temptation would provide an activity of some sort.

Resisting _another_ kind of temptation than the one he was currently, constantly, endlessly, fighting. He would not think about. He simply would not.

Of course he would. John. He relaxed at the mere thought. Yes, he had the possibility of looking at the real live John, but that always made John nervous. He wasn't his usual self, when being watched closely. He started to behave instead of being. Besides the calm reading of the paper at a time like this infuriated Sherlock. He would rather think.

The starting point had been determined. It was when he had grabbed John's head in his hands, whirled him around and demanded him to remember the ciphers. At that moment he had, in a brief flash, wanted to kiss John and regretted the gloves between them. It had been a passing glimpse into another reality, a remarkable wish. A dream he had filed for a later, more thorough, examination.

It had been a while before he had revisited the memory. He had avoided it rather purposely, locked it away at the end of a long, rarely frequented corridor with others like it - splurges of feeling distracting him. John helped him work and he had work. There was no need to add anything into the equation.

There it stayed, buried in the corner of his mind palace. With a distinct warmth seeping through, a light lingering from under the door. Hidden, but resisting oblivion. Until arrived that rainy Thursday afternoon, when he could no longer defy the pull, and had opened the door.

The force of what was inside had made him gasp. John. He had never felt anything like it. He had never known of anything like it. He had not been able to deduce its existence.

But he had been right in his avoidance, because nowadays the thought plagued him between cases. Even worse, on cases. In fact, whenever he let his mind slip even the tiniest bit, John took over. The way he smiled, that slight tilt of his head when he tried to think, how he scolded him for his manners, the sound he made when they sat down for dinner after a gruelling case. The small, satisfied sigh. Everything about him crowded Sherlock's mind if he gave it the smallest opening. The door couldn't be pushed shut again. What was inside didn't fit behind it anymore.

At first that had been enough. He had thought about John and been relatively content. The thoughts disturbed him, but they were at least presentations of reality: things that had happened or were happening. But then, as if by themselves, the thoughts had started to go further, to make demands, wishes, to dream, to hope for things. They had started to find ways to make John smile; they fantasised about pulling John into a kiss at the most inconvenient moments, the tilted neck practically inviting it; they waited anxiously, nervously for praise from John; they spent hours wondering what kind of noises John would be making if he… Simply put: the thoughts were completely out of his control.

Which resulted, once again, in an erection. If he had learned to control his penis at the hormonal throes of puberty, shouldn't it be scientifically impossible for him to be so at its mercy at well over thirty. Apparently not. He made one final, serious effort to stop, to command his cock to its comfortable, undemanding, flaccid state. He knew very well it was too late. A hard-on meant he had lost, he had been taken over.

There were two of him now. The one he had always been: the rational, controlled, intelligent; the one with the right questions, the correct answers and the unerring solutions. And now there was the new one. The one who had emerged slyly from the corner of the closed room without the old him noticing: the sentimental fool, crippled by romance with an almost painful physical need for John.

The new one took no orders from the old one, laughed at its face more like it. He had tried to control it, to rein it in, to slaughter it even, but it bounced back all carefree, happy, darn daffodils, roses and fields in bloom. There was no stopping this infatuated pillock that had awoken in him.

The old one had had to give in, to make room for it. To accept there were now two of them inhabiting this mind. When the old one had managed this long very well without the constant interruptions of the new one. The old one was busy, it had things to do, places to be. There was work to be done. The old one had a purpose. The new one wanted to just lie down, dream languidly of John and, blast it, masturbate.

Well, no, not masturbate. That was only a substitute. It wanted to fuck John, be fucked by John. (The _fuck_ was the old one slapping the new one. The new one was all about making love to John, touching him, kissing him, hearing all the noises he could make, seeing all the looks he could give, hearing all the praise there was to give. The old one was saying, if we have to do this, let's do it hard, fast, howling.)

The battle in him raged on. Unsure of the right steps to take (because the old one, who could have found the correct course of action was constantly sabotaged by the new one), touching himself was the farthest he had gone in trying to accommodate the new one. That was humiliating enough, his body commanding his mind. Worse, if things didn't change pretty soon, he would have to lock himself in the bathroom permanently.

But dear god, was _masturbation_ boring. It was like scratching an itch - a momentary relief that did nothing to the actual cause. Repeat until insane.

And why, why, why, didn't even the irritation, the anger at himself, do nothing to the now almost painfully throbbing erection. It wasn't like he could march to the bathroom like this, his cock proudly guiding him. That would surely make John pull a face worth seeing. He laughed out loud miserably.

"Something funny?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder best he could, pushing his hips against the wall.  
"No, no. You just… read your paper."  
Talking relieved the tension a bit. It brought him back to reality.

"On second thought, John, could you tell me all about the euro crisis?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, very seriously, please. The more serious the better."  
John shrugged his shoulders and off he went. Sherlock focused, demanded the details and sooner than expected he was able to sit up and felt no need to excuse himself anymore.

"Thank you, John. How enlightening."

"Didn't think you'd be interested."

"I most definitely am not."

John gave him that punch-in-the-face-look. It was charming.

"Glad to be able to help then."

Things could not continue like this. Obviously the matter wasn't going to solve itself. He would not subject himself to one more pathetic little wank, nor to a discussion about politics in its stead. There would have to be another way. He picked up the violin, tuned it. Chose something he had recently composed himself.

There were two solutions. He could leave, escape into the night, forge a new life somewhere else as someone else. Without John. But the thought made him nauseous, a knot tightened in his stomach. All in all, as matters stood, it was doubtful he would be able to do anything but ache for John from a distance. He did not want to live without John. That was the simple truth now commanding his existence - it would not be living without John by his side.

The other solution was much more tempting, but also more dangerous. So many things could go wrong. It was not terrain he was familiar with and a careless step could cause permanent damage to them both. He could give in to his urge, he could give himself to John. His body for John. He could claim John as his own. He could study John, analyse him - the amounts of data he could collect. The thought made him shiver. He slipped up a key. John didn't notice.

But would it be enough? If he gave in to these demands of his body, would he be satisfied or would the new one demand more and more until loving John would be his only purpose in life? It was frightening, more so, when he could distinctly hear the new one shouting: "Yes, yes, loving John is your only purpose in life - what else could you possibly need?" Would the old one be strong enough to protect its needs? To protect the work?

Then again, the old one had John at its side. John respected his work. Admired him for it. John would not let him forget the work. If he burned these urges, satisfied them, hopefully often, he would in all likelihood be able to work better, focus better. For the new one was physical, it wanted carnal contact. Giving into its demands might clear it out of his _mind_ altogether, leave the old one be. He could just fuck John and be done with it rather than be forced to think about it endlessly.

Mind made up he put the instrument down.  
"John, I would like to have sex with you."

John dropped his book and jaw. He looked shocked, surprised, not sure he'd heard right. But also trying to hold off a flicker of a smile.  
"Wh-what?"

"That's right. I would like to have sex with you."

"I… I'm… I don't know what to say… I'm… flattered… I…" John stuttered.

"Too blunt? Maybe you're right. There are the conveniences of courting that are usually waltzed through before propositioning. I just thought you'd know me better than to expect them."

John made an effort to collect himself.  
"Stop, stop, stop right there. I need a minute."

Sherlock waited.

"Okay." John cleared his throat. "Okay. I was not expecting courting, but then I wasn't expecting the proposition either. You want to have sex with me?"

"Yes. How many times do you need that repeated? I want to have sex with you. Make love as in shag, screw, hump, bang, fuck-"

"Okay, okay. Got it, thanks. It's just… it's a bit sudden."

Sherlock snorted.  
"Don't be ridiculous. It's been a long time coming. I've seen the looks you give me, the passing touches. You even put on your date shirt when we go out for dinner!"

"I… noticed that, did you?"

"Of course. The colour doesn't suit you, by the way. It makes you look pasty."

"Pasty?"

"You've spared me from the cologne at least. Those things have a use-by date as well you know."

"I smell... bad?"

It was aggravating how John always had a hard time focusing on the relevant.  
"My bedroom or yours? The floor here might be uncomfortable, especially for a first time, though I have ideas for later."

"Wait a minute, Sherlock."

"My bed does have a better mattress. And nicer sheets."

"Sherlock. Shut up!"

John had grabbed his arms, held them firmly, looked at him, in his eyes, his face in a frown. And that meant… kissing? Probably. How? What was he supposed to do exactly? He leaned his head in closer to John until their faces were at level with each other. Something in John's look had changed. It was definitely going to be kissing now. He placed his lips on John's. He had no idea what to do next. John did. He traced his hand up to the nape of Sherlock's neck to pull him in. Instead of just pressing their lips together, he aligned his own over Sherlock's to softly tuck them.

"Relax, Sherlock," John whispered into his mouth.

He stopped puckering his lips, let them get comfortable, let them follow the movement of John's lips and then, a bit nervously at first, he let them respond.

It was like playing, one note following the other in harmony, the sweet composition of their kiss. He quivered.  
John pulled back.  
"Now, can we sit down and talk about this."

Talking? Just when he was having his first kiss! John looked determined.  
"Fine."

They settled on the sofa.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"You want to have sex with me?" Then remembering the list, John quickly continued: "I mean, yes, we've established that. I just… want to be sure you know what you're doing. Because it can be a… big thing… to have sex with someone."

"I am the one wanting sex for the first time, I do know the size of it."

"So, you really have never had sex?" Unnecessary question after that kiss, really.

"No."

"And… this is the first time you even… want to?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

"Yes. You. Only you. Never anyone but you."

It sounded a lot more like a complaint than a compliment. But damn if it wasn't the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to John.

"Is that all? Can we now, please, get on with it?"

Honestly, yes, they could.  
"Your bedroom then," John agreed.

* * *

"No, let me," John stopped Sherlock, who had already taken off his dressing gown. John slipped off his own sweater, threw it on the floor and took Sherlock's hand, placed it on his bare chest. Very gently Sherlock moved his hand, feeling his way. The pale curly hairs caressing his palm, the fast beating of John's heart right there, right under his touch, the nipples hardening as he passed them, John in tiny shivers. He was transfixed. He hardly noticed that John was easing his pyjama top off him. Without thinking he kissed John's neck. Carefully at first, then more confidently, then hungry. There it was - the first sound he'd played out of John. An aroused little wheeze. He stood back amazed.

John smiled at him. That too was new, a playful, teasing, eager smile. Not one of affirmation, but of expectation. John kissed him. John wanted him. He put his arms around John, held him tight. Their mouths no longer needed guiding, they knew what to do as their lips and tongues danced against each other. He pushed himself hard against John and felt him push back. The outline of John's cock against his thigh. For a second he thought he would come right there and then.

John had on jeans whereas Sherlock's pyjama bottoms hardly restrained him. To ease John's discomfort he swiftly opened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, pushed them lower to help John shake them off. And then he touched him. Felt John hard in his hand. There was the second sound, similar to the first one but louder with relief at being touched.

John pulled down his pyjamas quickly and pushed him onto the bed getting on top of him, their naked bodies now touching completely. Their cocks demanding they get closer.

Christ. One: he had never gathered this much data in one moment, every part of his skin delivering sensations to his brain. What his cock felt was indescribable. He didn't even try to process it. Two: he now fully understood the necessity of shouting for biblical characters during sex. This was as close to heaven anyone ever got.

He rocked himself against John, his own body surprising him as his hips knew precisely what to do. John kissed his neck, his chest, his teeth nibbling his shoulder. His hands wandered along John's back, feeling his muscles, his buttocks firm as he pressed himself against Sherlock. John's lips on his. John all over him.

Suddenly a fierce wave hit Sherlock, snatched him away, carried him with it. All was quiet. Time stopped. His back arched. He shook. His lips formed John's name, but not a syllable came out. He closed his eyes. Let his body fall, fall, wash upon the shore. It was glorious. A gust of wind blowing through his mind palace, emptying it completely. He couldn't move, couldn't think, he had found peace. He was free.

"You alright there?"  
He could hear the smile in John's voice, not really worried, proud, more like it. John kissed his temple. He made a sound, any sound, for he could not yet form words.

He came slowly to. John next to him. John's fingers softly tracing his skin. He felt the wet smear on his stomach. He had had sex. He had had sex with John. It was not boring. It was extremely interesting. Worth his time. Worth the time of the old one as well. He would need to catalogue and organize everything. Right now he felt light-headed, unable to think clearly. Another first.

He was so overwhelmed, so focused only in himself, that it took too long for him to realise how massively he had cocked up. In the worst way possible. He sprang up to lean on his elbow and turned to John blushing in embarrassment. He was mortified, hardly daring to look at John.  
"What about you?" he mumbled.

"Don't worry about me. Best I've ever had."  
John caressed his face smiling. He did look happy.

"But I want to… " He wasn't sure. He should have planned this better. But having come to a conclusion he had proceeded to execution without wasting any more time.

John chuckled.  
"Trust me, I'm loving this. Seeing you happy and spent, having been the one, who did that to you, that's more than enough for now. The way you came, that was… Like I said, I've never had better. You're amazing. You're… gorgeous. Your cock… Christ, the things I'm going to do to you…"  
He kissed Sherlock on the lips, felt himself grow harder. They had all night.

They must have heard the door bell, but didn't process it until they heard the step creak. The second one. If you wanted to come up quietly, you needed to step on the right corner.

"No. Shit, Sherlock," John grunted.  
Being the one more experienced, he was out of bed and clothed before Sherlock, who still seemed to be out of it, moving in slow motion. John didn't have time to check the mirror, but he did make it to the kitchen before Lestrade entered the living room.

"Hello there," Lestrade greeted, "is the man with the mind around?"

John combed his hair with his hand. If he didn't look like he'd just had sex, then he would never look like he just had sex.

"Whoa, sorry, did I interrupt something?"

"Er, no, quite… er… no."  
Convincing.  
"What is it, Lestrade?"

Sherlock, who had been barely conscious thirty seconds ago, was perfectly dressed, combed and looked like he had been reading a scientific journal.

"Nothing… just a murder," he waved it aside, "but what's with John? Who is she? Where is she?"

Sherlock looked at John and grinned.  
"Yes, John, do tell us all about her."

"What? No, there's… what are you talking about?"

Sherlock laughed, enjoying this a bit too much for John's liking.

"Please, you're in the company of two detectives, not that Lestrade often earns the title, but you're too obvious. You look precisely like a man, who has just, about thirty seconds ago, abandoned a satisfied lover in post-coital bliss in a hurry to meet… Lestrade, of all people. Tut, tut, John. She deserves better."  
The two were smirking to each other knowingly. John shook his head.  
"So, murder?" he tried to engage Lestrade.

"Ha, you're not getting away with it so easily. Is she still here?" Lestrade pointed upstairs.

"There's no one here but me and Sherlock."

"Pity… would like to meet the lady. Seems to have given you a good ride," Lestrade said a touch enviously.

Sherlock was giggling, John blushing.  
"Can we go and see dead bodies now, please?" John pleaded.

"Alright, alright, follow me, gentlemen," Lestrade led the way, John and Sherlock following.

Sherlock fondled John's neck and whispered:  
"Sorry, couldn't resist."

The touch, the closeness of his lips sent a trickle of heat that settled in John's groin.

"Next time, though, you stay in bed."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was relieved. It had worked. He was able to concentrate on the crime scene, noticing every detail, processing them and at the same time - as usual - think about other things without John controlling all of his thoughts. How appropriate then that while he made deductions on the corpse (fifty year old male, divorced five years ago, three children in their teens who he saw every other weekend, heavy user of dating sites, but nothing ever went beyond two dates, too many pub nights, tried to balance them out with jogging, bludgeoned to death, and so on), he kept the rest of his mind on John.

John was definitely thinking about sex. He would have to make sure that next time John's needs were taken care of, too. They both needed to focus on the case. He was very embarrassed. How quaintly normal. Ashamed of his first time, afraid he wasn't good at it, that he'd been a disappointment. Cringing at his so-called stamina. John had probably thought they were just warming up.

"Where are his business cards?"

"What do you mean?" Donovan squawked.

"Business cards? And a small case they're in?"

The familiar faces empty of all signs of intelligence. Some things didn't change.  
"A business man, in a suit, with a briefcase. We have his phone, keys, papers, tablet, but where is his box of business cards? The ones he gives out to his contacts and the ones he receives? He should have a pile of his own and two or three he's gotten in the past few days and hasn't given to his PA for filing yet."

"We haven't found those," Lestrade admitted. Not that they had looked.

Well, that was that. Nothing more to see here.  
"John, let's go."

They hopped in a cab.

"Where to, then?" John asked.

"Huh? Hmm. Here's fine. Here's fine, please. Wait? Five minutes?"  
He pulled John along with him. Held on to him as they walked ahead the back lane. Here it was. He opened the door and they stepped into a storage room. He pushed John against the wall and started kissing him passionately.

"Hold on, Sherlock," John tried to protest.

"We've only got a couple of minutes," he was already opening John's trousers.

"For what? What is this place? Oh, that's, ooh, that's very nice-"

He took John in his hand, stroked him. He was already hard. It was no surprise with the thoughts he'd been entertaining since they left home.

"Sherlock, seriously, as much as, oh god, I like what you're doing-," he was kissing John's neck as he fondled his balls, "is this really the right, ah, time and place?"

"Certainly. I can't have you thinking about sex while we work. You need to be focused."

"Well, then, oh, by all means," John gasped.

He knelt down. John's cock hard and heavy in front of him. He took it in his hand. Moistened his lips. How difficult could it be? He licked its length. Salty, so... stiff, ready. Leaking. He tasted the pre-cum, let his tongue play on the glans. He wanted to suck John's cock. He was hungry for it. It turned him on. Carefully he let John slip in his mouth. John caught his breath. He felt around with his tongue, studied the feel of John with his mouth. Delicious.

John's fingers wrapped around his head. He picked up a rhythm. John's moans and sighs assuring him that he was doing it right. A bit of saliva dripping on his chin. He varied the rhythm, stroked with his tongue. Let John slide in deeper, his hand on the shaft following the suction of his mouth, moving along with it.

John's breathing was ragged, his grip on Sherlock's hair almost painfully tight.  
"I'm gonna come," he managed to groan a warning as Sherlock felt a small tug before the cock pumped its load. John collapsed over him moaning. The sound of John coming. He trembled a little. Divine. The symphonies they would play.

"Jesus, Sherlock, how did you… that was… amazing."

Sherlock guided him down next to himself, kissed him on the lips.  
"Satisfied?"

John chuckled.  
"Understatement of the century. That was good. Very good."

"Great. Let's go then."  
Sherlock stood up and helped John to his feet. He tucked John in, straightened his clothes. But there was nothing he could do with the look on John's face that said he had just been given the best head ever.

* * *

"There you are, thought you'd get here before us," Lestrade met them at the flat of the victim.

"John, what's with the smile, did Sherlock blow you on the way?" Donovan cracked.

John went pink. Sherlock burst out laughing, getting a nasty look from Donovan. She was not used to Sherlock finding her funny.

"John's got a girlfriend," Lestrade helped, "just missed her earlier."

"Aww, pity things didn't work out between the freak and you. Always thought you'd make a lovely couple. Maybe it's best like this. Who knows what crazy kinks the lunatic would think of in bed," Donovan continued her tirade.

Sherlock was in stitches while he searched the flat. John was rather looking forward to the kinks.

"What's so funny, freak?"

"Well, he did blow me on the way, that's all," John said.

"'Right, no need to get your panties in a twist. Just 'aving a laugh here. Jeez. Someone's sensitive," Donovan sulked.

Sherlock was now laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. How anyone could be so stupid. They saw it, even thought about, and yet refused to make the right deductions. It was ludicrous.

Lestrade pulled John away angry.  
"Is he high? Please, don't tell me he's high. Don't tell me, that I have a man on drugs investigating my crime scene."

"He is not high. Not on anything illegal anyway."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock.  
"Why is he like that then? What's so funny?"

"Because he did - ". But he decided it wasn't the right time just yet. He wanted things to develop on their own a few more days. To see what this actually was. "Never mind. I'll fill you in later." Besides, it was quite funny, how no one seemed to believe their eyes.

There was nothing of immediate interest in the flat. Two of his children had been over the past weekend. Normally he sustained on ready meals, tidied the place up only for visitors. If he didn't go to the pub in the evening, he often worked at home.

They headed for the workplace. Sherlock was very pleased. He was fully immersed in the case, like he should be. John right there next to him, holding his hand and not needing a single thought. He caressed John's thumb and even though it sent a lovely, warm tingle spreading from his palm, it did not disturb his work. The busy goings-on of the old one.

The PA was a nervous twenty-something (twenty-six years, three months and two days), who giggled irritatingly when Sherlock spoke to her (nervous, attracted). Her make-up was sloppily applied, the shoes didn't go with the rest of her outfit, and the jewellery seemed to be for brighter colours, too. Her boss had had no meetings that morning. He had turned up at the office at nine, left after ten o'clock for what she'd taken as personal business and an early lunch. She had not seen his business cards, nor the small metallic case he kept them in. Sherlock was welcome to look in his office.

Sherlock searched the victim's calendar and its history on the pc. The bin had been cleared at 1:46 pm. Someone had deleted a meeting after the man was dead and tried to make sure it couldn't be found. Case closed. Well, that was simple. Even Lestrade could've done this.  
"So... Stronger than you look, aren't you? Cross-fit?" he addressed the PA.

"Yes, how did you..."

"Not easy beating a man to death. But he wouldn't expect that from you. What did you use? No, don't tell me! A barbell? Why would you lug something so cumbersome around with you? Ah, he had just bought it, of course. You'd recommended weights and you picked it up together after the meeting."

"Now, hang on-"

"That must have been messy. You had to shower and change before you came back to the office. Didn't bother with the accessories, thought no one would notice."

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade to search the PA's flat. Her protests effectively blocked out as meaningless. The bloody clothes would be... he looked at the woman... in a bin on the way to the tube station. Closest to the flat. She wouldn't have the nerve to carry them with her for long. The barbell close to the crime scene… Quite right, the lock was only a street away, a task for divers. And yes, please send someone to take the young lady in. They had things to do and couldn't babysit her for long.

"Chinese?"

"Sure," John agreed. "Take away?"

Definitely.

* * *

"I never thought they could be so ridiculous about us," Sherlock laughed in the taxi.

"Well, I'm glad you're having fun. Lestrade thought you were high."

They giggled.

"I am, aren't I? On you."

A soft, gentle kiss.

So many ways to kiss. He was setting up a room for kisses in his mind palace. Data on John needed its own wing. Perhaps even a shrine. In that case he would need a rating system for their moments together. That would be difficult. So far everything was perfect. The new one was getting everything it had wanted and more. Things it hadn't even known of.

As Baker Street approached Sherlock could feel John's pulse quickening. They were barely touching, fingers lazily brushing. Just the thought of privacy with Sherlock turned John on. Which turned Sherlock on. He stroked John's thigh, the inner seam. John kept his on the right. John cleared his throat, sat up straight, tried to control his hard-on under Sherlock's palm. Staring out the window he took hold of Sherlock's hand and pressed it hard against himself, almost grunting out loud as Sherlock groped him.

Getting out and paying seemed to take forever. They nearly ran upstairs. Their mouths locked on the top step as they started to undress hastily, clumsily, fingers resisting anything but touching skin, sleeves getting caught, belts tangling, all the while moving towards the bedroom. The movements rushed as they burned with desire. As they fell on the bed, John kicked off his trousers, Sherlock's had been left somewhere in the hallway. Only thing that mattered was the touch of their skins.

John guided their hands around both their cocks, against each other in their joined grip. Sherlock moaned his name, repeating it over and over until it turned into a meaningless resonance of his lust. The waves came again, again, again. John bit Sherlock's chest, left his mark on his neck.

Calming down, breaths steadying they rested in a tight embrace. Sherlock's lips against John's forehead. To think he had waited so long, fought against this ecstasy. Madness.

The doorbell, again. No, it couldn't be. But it was. Lestrade on the stairs.

"Ough, I want to cuddle!" John protested.

"I got it," Sherlock winked, "I want to see how long we can keep this up."  
He was ready in twenty seconds, settled with a paper in the living room by the time Lestrade made it there.

"Look, Sherlock, we found the bloody clothes and the weapon just where you said, but you don't happen to know about the motive, do you?"

"Seriously? I thought that was obvious." And for this he had left the bed.

"Er, no?" Lestrade admitted baffled.

"Did you find the business cards?"

"We did, yes. In her flat."

"And?"

"There were three that weren't his."

"Danielson Mining has a gold mine. Literally. He took his PA to the meeting with him, thought it was a hoax. She realised that no one else knew about the deal and she could hijack it - as long as she got rid of her boss before they got back to the office," to make to motive absolutely clear, he added: "Money."

"Ah, that makes sense. Thanks," Lestrade tried to get a closer look at him, "you've got something on your neck…", but Sherlock put his paper up.

"Yes, thank you."

John had redressed very carefully. He even looked in the mirror and sorted his hair before going to the living room. It was blatantly obvious what he had been up to.

"You're doing her in Sherlock's bedroom?! Are you really okay with that?" Lestrade, incredulous, turned to Sherlock.

It was unreal.

"Greg, whatever Sherlock says, I refuse to believe you're that daft. Connect the blasted dots, will you?" John laughed.

Very slowly, way too slowly, the perplexed look transformed into understanding.  
"Ah, right," Lestrade finally smiled embarrassed, "I don't know, what I was thinking. I had already given up hope on you two." He looked at their cheerful, happy faces, a bit jealous. All he had to look forward to was an empty flat and an empty fridge. "Celebrations are in order, right? You still got that gin I brought? I could fix us all martinis."

John and Sherlock exchanged a look. Message received. It was worth a shot anyway.

"Right, right, of course. Well," Lestrade started for the door, "sorry to have disturbed you. And, yeah, in the future I'll call before barging in."

"Cheers, we'll have the drinks another time, promise," John shouted after him.

"Sherlock?"

He had found an interesting article and was immersed in reading.  
"Hmm?"

"I believe we have some unfinished business in the bedroom." John had missed (at least) two after-sex snuggles and who knew what else might follow after a bit of rest. "Get your kit off and come on." Sherlock was happy to comply.

* * *

Morning. John clattering in the kitchen. Up at six, ever the soldier. He rolled over to lie where John had slept. His warmth was already gone but the scent lingered. He hugged the pillow. It was real. John was his.

And more, well, at least as, important was that his solution was working. His mind in order again. The case yesterday had been fun. No one else would probably have thought the PA could give a grown man such a beating. He might go over to the mortuary today, take a closer look at the wounds a barbell made. He put on his dressing gown, shuffled to the kitchen.

John was cooking breakfast. He draped himself around him, buried his face in his nape, pressing his lips against it. I love you John. John smiled happy.

"Morning gorgeous, sleep well?"

He muttered an affirmative into John's hair.

"Funny, after all this time I still don't know how you like your eggs?"

Truth be told, he preferred them poached on a muffin with ham and hollandaise on the side, but doubted John's culinary prowess stretched that far.

"Scrambled's fine."

His hands travelled under John's shirt. Wandered over the warm skin, the muscles tensing under his touch. John, I love you. He kissed his neck, bit his teeth into it making John flinch. John was leaning backwards, against him. The hand distractedly holding the spatula. Sherlock reached out and turned off the cooker. John, let me play a song with you. Let me pluck your strings and draw my bow across you. He trembled as John ground his hips against him. Slow, circular motions. John, let me learn your timbre.

John turned; Sherlock pulling the shirt off him. Looking into Sherlock's eyes he slowly opened his gown and let it fall on the floor. Sherlock shivered, the kitchen was cold. John kissed his chest, put his arms around him and pulled him closer. He shivered.

John stared Sherlock unabashedly. The fully erect cock saluting from amongst the straight symmetrical lines, the firm muscles. The dark curls around it. He would be happy just admiring this body. Being able to touch it was almost too much. He led Sherlock to the bedroom. Breakfast could wait.


	3. Chapter 3

**~WARNING: EXPLICIT HET~**

Greg left Baker Street feeling strangely melancholic. He wasn't one to pity himself, but the fact that a self-confessed sociopath found love when he had no one just didn't seem fair.

The thought of returning to the empty flat with the telly for company wasn't inviting. There was nothing interesting at the office either. He wasn't desperate enough to turn to paperwork just yet.

Perhaps he should drop by the mortuary, see if Molly already had some results on today's victim. It wasn't like she had a life either.

"Hallo Molly, how are you?"  
He kissed her on the cheeks.

Their working relationship had developed more towards a friendship lately with the odd evening here and there spent in Baker Street. Albeit few and far between, they had still provided a chance to meet less formally and slowly move from being strictly colleagues to mates.

"Hello Greg, I'm good, you?"

"Good, good. Just decided to drop by to see if you'd have anything on today's murder victim already."

"Why, yes, now, it's really quite interesting. Even I haven't seen bruising like that before. Or not very often," she explained enthusiastically. "Do you want to see the body?"

"Yes, please."

They went in to the cold room, where Molly located the correct freezer and pulled out the corpse.

"I thought, maybe, Sherlock would come. I'm sure he'd love these incisions," she mused as she uncovered the body.

"He might come by tomorrow. Right now he's busy with John." Greg tried to clarify: "They're busy with each other."

"They have another case? That's good for Sherlock. He always gets so grumpy if he's bored. Not that he isn't always grumpy. I mean... I don't mean..." she went on, not wanting Greg to get the impression that Sherlock would ever be grumpy.

Greg was at the end of his tether. First interrupting an enviable domestic scene, then coming over to Molly hung up on Sherlock. He could not catch a break. Why couldn't Molly just get over Sherlock and finally notice him? Fat chance.

"Molly, they're busy fu-" he cried out, but stopped himself just in time. He didn't want to cause Molly any more pain than necessary.

He took a deep breath, calmed down. "They're a proper couple now. At long last."

"Oh," she started fiddling with the bone saw aimlessly. "That's... That's good isn't it? I'm so happy for them. Both of them. Yes. John's a nice guy, isn't he? Very nice. Right? Or what do you think?"

Greg sighed. Of the two of them he certainly wasn't worried whether John would treat Sherlock right.  
"John's a great guy. I'm sure he'll take good care of Sherlock."

"You think so, do you? I'm glad. Yes. I'm very glad. Though I... I never thought Sherlock would be gay... Always such a flirt, wasn't he? He was. John, of course, obviously," Molly giggled nervously.

Greg shrugged, nodded. John, gay, everyone knew that. Hardly.  
"Look, Molly, you wouldn't want to go out for a drink, would you?"

"Me? Why, yes. Of course. I can go for a drink. Yes. With you, you mean?"

Greg spread his arms.  
"With me."

After packing up the body, they went to Molly's local.

On their second drink the discussion still revolved around the wonderful Mr Holmes and the dubious Dr Watson.

"John's a bit brusque with him sometimes, don't you think?"

"He speaks his mind," Greg agreed.

"It's a bit rude, isn't it? I mean... Sherlock's... well, you have to understand him. Do you think John does? I don't think... I mean, he doesn't always."

Greg was starting to doubt whether this was any better than being home alone.

"Molly," he said. "Sherlock is in love with John. They are together. In fact, I think they are _perfect_ for each other. Though I'm not sure what crime John has committed to deserve Sherlock, but he is the _only one_ who has ever had any control over the man's raving. End of story. Sherlock is not into you."

Molly looked like she had been hit and her lower lip started shaking.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't mean that, " he patted her arm. He should have kept his gob shut. It was not Molly's fault he felt so lonely. "I'm really sorry." He stroked her hand.  
"It's been a long day. What I meant was, can we talk about something else?"

She stared at the table, sniffed.  
"Like what?"

"Like... you. Tell me about yourself."

"Me?" she was astonished.

"You. For example: what do you do when you're not cutting open dead bodies?"

"Well. Nothing. I mean. I have a cat. And a window box. With herbs and some flowers in it."

"Really? I never knew. What herbs?"

Turned out Molly had quite a green thumb, the city not being the best place to make use of it. Her parents had a big garden and she had pottered about it since she was a child. Greg loved to cook, so they conversed at length on the different uses of basil, coriander and oregano, and wondered whether Molly should also plant some mint or perhaps dill, or possibly go for something more exotic like Thai basil.

"Why don't I cook for you some time? With your herbs?" Greg suggested.

"Would you? No one's ever... that would be nice. I'd like that."

When Greg brought in the third round it seemed only natural he should sit next to Molly instead of opposite her.

"What about you, Greg? What do you do when you´re not _detecting_?" she simpered.

"Pah, nothing. Sit at home moping," he admitted cheerfully.

"And... how are things with your wife?"

"_Ex_-wife. Ex. Divorce finalised, reconciliation attempts suffered through."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"No, no. Good riddance, if you ask me. Some things just aren't meant to be, no matter how hard you try."

"I suppose so. Though it would be nice, wouldn't it? To make things work just because you want to."

The pub was getting quite rowdy. Greg's arm was extended over the back of their bench and as he leaned in to better hear Molly, his hand effortlessly fell on her shoulder.

"So... Are you seeing anybody?" Greg asked her.

"No, no, there's no one."

"There should be. You have such a lovely smile. And a great," body, no, that's never a good idea at this point, "mind. You're really smart. I like that."

She blushed charmingly.  
"Thanks."

As he was already this close to Molly, it was a matter of course that he should kiss her. She tasted of lager, breath mints. Her lips shy, hesitant. He stroked her cheek. She was so pretty.

Molly put her hand on Greg's thigh, caressed it nervously. She wasn't sure. But then she never was, was she? Unless it was about work. Or Sherlock. Greg was nice. He really was. And handsome. And she knew who he was. There would be no nasty surprises. And Sherlock was gay.

The second kiss was more confident. Lips parted, tongues found each other, passed over lips, brushed onto one another. They found a common flow easily, no awkward discords. Their mouths comfortable with each other.

Greg's hand was on Molly's neck, she was caressing his side, both trying to get a little bit closer. The drink helping in forgetting the surroundings. Their kissing full of want, longing, timid dreams.

It had been a long time since Greg had felt the kind of arousal that now overtook him. He wanted Molly. She was beautiful. She tasted good, her lips. She _did_ have a lovely figure.

The feeling was mutual. Being wanted was exciting. Being touched. Touching. She wanted to feel skin. She wanted to feel someone against her. As Greg's mouth tasted hers, hand fondling her nape, Molly felt a warm rush in her. She could, couldn't she? Greg was nice.

"It's getting late, I think I better head home," Molly said.

"Of course. Yeah, let's go," Greg pulled back.

"Would you like to come over for a cup of tea?" Molly asked, the drink making her brave, Greg making her feel confident.

"Sure," Greg smirked.

Both all smiles as they walked out. The giddy excitement of a night full of promise. A surge of happiness.

Greg draped his arm over Molly's shoulder, pulled her close. Pecked her lips. She wrapped her arm around his waist, under the coat. Squeezing Greg's side.

Was she using him to get even with Sherlock? To convince herself she didn't care? Probably. Greg didn't really mind. He had always fancied Molly. Wondered what she saw in Sherlock. Well, if he really wanted to know, he could now ask John. He shuddered, he didn't really want to know.

Greg stopped, took Molly in his arms. Kissed her good and long. She trembled, let out a small aroused sigh as they parted.

"You're beautiful."

She smiled. Yes, she would.

* * *

As Molly opened the door, Greg nibbled her neck. She was shivering. He brushed his hand over her breast. Pressed close to her.

They stepped inside. As the door closed they both became more self-conscious. This was it. It would really happen. If they both wanted to.

Greg had never been at Molly's. The cat Toby made a tour around him, eyed him suspiciously before returning to his interrupted nap on the sofa.

She had a small kitchen/sitting room and an even tinier bedroom, which had just enough room for a double bed.

"Tea?"  
"Please."

Molly turned the kettle on. Looked for the tea bags. Greg took her hand. Pulled her close. They would. He kissed her.

Hands didn't need to behave anymore. She put hers under Greg's shirt. Skin, warm, smooth. Hair on the small of his back. Soft. Muscle under his shoulder blades. She traced her hands to his sides. Pulled the shirt over his head. No reason to be shy now. The hairs on his chest also greying. She stroked them, kissed his neck.

He caressed her hips, started unbuttoning her blouse kissing the hollow between her collarbones, tracing the curve of her breast with his finger. Soft kisses along her neck. Last button.

He tucked at the sleeves and let the blouse fall. Kissed her on the lips and let his hand wander higher from her waist.

He kissed the white lace of Molly's bra as his hands moved to her back. Over twenty years of practise and still the excited fingers had trouble with opening a bra. Molly laughed quietly. The fumbling was worth it, just hearing that laugh.

Her bra fell on the floor. He cupped her breast, his thumb tickling a nipple, feeling it grow hard under his touch. He leaned in, took it in his mouth, the other hand playing with the other nipple.

Molly trembled. Feeling the force of her arousal in her panties.

As Greg's tongue passed over her breast, Molly's grip on his hair tightened. She was afraid she'd fall.

It was wonderful. Eyes closed, head tilted backwards. She pressed his head closer. Willed the suction harder, the hand rougher.

She pushed him away, took his hand and dragged after her to the bedroom.

They fell on the bed kissing passionately. She got on top of him, bit his chest playfully.

Greg rolled her over and filled his mouth with her breast. Sucking, almost too hard, just right. She moaned. Yes, he knew what he was doing.

His lips moved lower, hungry, determined. Hands opening her jeans. Hurry. She lifted her hips, let him undress her, jeans, panties, socks coming off in a bundle.

"You are gorgeous," he sighed.

He kissed her hip bones, caressed the insides of her thighs. She was hardly containing herself with want.

Finally. As Greg licked her she let out a little scream. Not surprise, fulfilment.

She was soaking wet. His tongue playing on her clit. She bit her own fist, hips moving with Greg's mouth, into Greg's mouth. Gasping, moaning. Greg driving her crazy, pleasure building in her, a steady ecstasy. His finger entered her. She heard the sound of her own heat as his fingers moved inside her. Unbearable.

She pushed Greg off, got a hold of his trousers. How come he still had them on?

"Christ, Molly, you're so hot."

"You're making me."

She tasted herself on Greg's lips. Belt, shaking fingers struggling with it. Open, pants down. She pulled back to look. Moistened her lips, took Greg's cock in her hand. Stroked.

Greg arched his back.  
"Jesus, Moll," he groaned.

She leaned in, teasing, licked just the wet tip of him. Couldn't wait.

She reached over to the drawer and got a condom, wrapped it on him and lay on her back. Looked into his eyes. Come. Spread her legs, knees up.

He leaned down, kissed her, gently now.

Careful, in. Tight, wet, hot. He gasped. Their eyes met. She gasped. Slippery.

She bucked her hips.

Divine. Easy, almost shy pushes.

Lips on lips, aimless, wanting to touch, to feel. To taste you.

"Shit, I don't think I'll last long."

"Me neither."

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him deeper, pushed her hips up, hands on his neck. Slow, he was trying to hold on. She took a hold of his arse. Faster.

Lips locked, pressing against each other.

Faster, harder. Fuck me, Greg.

He did. She hung on to him tightly. Their bodies moving in unison, riding for the same mark.

The bright wave hit her, shook her, made her whimper Greg's name.

She let go relieved, arms spread wide, let her hips work Greg. Let them take him. He cursed, shuddered. Came.

"Christ," she murmured still trembling. Wanted to shout. Kissed him.

Greg pulled her close, wrapped arms around her. Sweaty. She licked his shoulder. Salty.

"That was good," she whispered.

"Yes, definitely. You're amazing."

"You're not so bad either," she smiled.

They slept naked.

Sometime during the night she woke up to his hot kisses on her neck, gentle hands on her body.

Slow, languid love as Greg entered her from behind. Lips kissing, nibbling her nape as he fondled her clit and breasts, pinched nipples. Fucking her until she rode waves of orgasms, pressing a pillow to her face to muffle the cries, fearing she'd go mad from pleasure.

* * *

The cruel light of morning.

It's not cruel until you open your eyes.

She traced her fingers over his chest. He kissed her.

She got up to make coffee. He fried eggs. It was cosy. The spell was broken.

Greg was the braver one. Cleared his throat.  
"I had a really… I really like you, Molly."

"I… me, too." She paused. "It's just that… I… I've had... a serious crush twice: on a criminal mastermind and. Well, I suppose, a gay sociopath. Not that he really is a sociopath." ("Yeah, I know he isn't.") "I would like to... I mean, I'm not sure I can..."

"Right, I understand. I do. Could we… Why don't we keep things casual and see where this goes, ok?"

"That's a good idea. I mean, I do want to see you. And you should... we should do that cooking thing."

"Yeah, let's do that. I'll... text you?"

"Sure. You have my number? Do you? Of course you do, you call me all the time. At work, I mean. With work. So, you do know it."

She was so goofy sometimes. It was lovely. He pecked her lips.  
"I have it. I'll text you."

Greg left smiling. He felt good. You never know with these things. But he really, really liked Molly. And last night had been really, really amazing. He wanted to see where this could go.

He hoped she would be ready. Bloody Sherlock, messing with her mind. On purpose, no doubt. He was like that. Never thought how he affected others.


	4. Chapter 4

It took another day before John and Sherlock made it to the mortuary in the late afternoon. Not that they actually wanted to leave the bed, but they were both feeling a bit sore by now, and a stretch of the legs seemed like a good idea.

John was curious about the wounds, too. Although not as curious as Sherlock of course, who took some samples and proceeded to examine them at the lab.

Molly was busy with her own work. For once she felt calm around Sherlock. She hadn't even stuttered. They had texted with Greg. He was coming over that night to make pappardelle with lamb.

The change in her didn't go unnoticed.

"So, Lestrade? Hmph, well, I suppose you could do worse," Sherlock remarked.

"Sherlock..." John was quickly up to speed, his tone cautioning Sherlock to stay of the topic.

But Molly held her head up high.  
"Yes. I've been seeing Greg. He is very nice. He cooks," she spoke confidently.

"Oh, _Greg_ cooks," Sherlock raised an eyebrow amused and turned to John, who was quite unaffected, looking at some bruising on an arm.

"He does. And... anyway, it's none of your business," Molly said defiantly.

"You're right, it's not," John agreed. He was not too keen to discuss his own love life and was only happy to extend the courtesy to others.

Sherlock's interest, as expected, had already returned to the specimens he was studying.

"Sherlock, do you need me? I have a couple of errands to run," John asked.

_I always need you._

Sherlock grunted non-committally.

"Great. You know how to reach me," John said.

John hovered a minute.  
"See you back home then."  
He would kiss a girlfriend before leaving. But Sherlock was hunched over his work, not even making eye-contact.

As he left, John walked past Sherlock, brushed his shoulder in goodbye. A hand grabbed his, fingers laced, and Sherlock pulled him close almost violently. For the briefest second lips touched his, a forehead rested on his. Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath and just as suddenly the grip was let go.

Sherlock remained posture unchanged looking through the lens of the microscope as if he hadn't moved.

John blushed at the intimacy. Suppose with time he would get used to the strange experience of loving and being loved by Sherlock. What that entailed in public places had so far been a complete mystery.

He cleared his throat as he walked towards the door. Molly was inconspicuously bent over a folder pretending to read.

"Bye, Molly."

"See you, John."

* * *

Molly and Sherlock worked side by side in silence. She felt uncommonly comfortable in his presence.

"Molly, run these samples."

"I can't, Sherlock, I'm in the middle of –"

Sherlock looked at her. No? He opened his eyes wide, flashed a brief smile.  
"Please."

"Well, all right," she agreed helplessly, face flushed.

She was just finishing with Sherlock's request, when Greg came in.

He was taken aback in seeing Sherlock there. The two of them next to each other, staring at the screen.

"Greg! I didn't know you were coming," Molly beamed at him and pecked his cheeks innocently.

He nodded a hi at Sherlock, who just waved his hand.

"Thought I'd pick you up. Walk you home."

"Oh, I'm not ready yet," she admitted embarrassed.

"No? But I thought you said…?"

"Yes. Well. I ran a sample for Sherlock. So I'm a bit late with my own work."  
She didn't meet Greg's eyes.

But Sherlock did, smiled wide at Greg.

The bastard.

"Is that so?" Greg grumbled. "But I've already done the shopping," he said, lifting a bag of groceries higher.

"I won't be long. I'm so sorry. You can put them in the fridge here."

"With the body parts?"

"Yes. It's quite sterile. More hygienic than a common household fridge."

"She is right," Sherlock chimed in and got up. "Well, I best be off. I'm sure John won't be cooking."

Greg felt like sticking his tongue out, when Sherlock strode past him. Ass.

"You know you don't really have to take orders from him?" he said to Molly.

"I know, it's just... Well, he needs my help sometimes."

Greg shrugged. Suppose so. His need for a nice evening with her apparently was secondary.

No, casual, remember. Do not take offence, she will only resent petty jealousy. They have always been like this; it won't change just because of one (_amazing_) night. He tried to look unaffected and cheerful.

"Anything for me to do while I wait?"

"Actually, yes, I do have a couple of reports I was going to send you, if you want to read them now."

"Sounds wonderful," he sighed.

As she handed them over her hand rested on Greg's a little longer than necessary. The night might turn out alright.

* * *

It was in the end not such a bad idea to read the reports with Molly there. He could ask his questions and make his notes right away, which meant he would be able to close two cases first thing on Monday. Not a bad start for a week.

They were nothing special – drunken and drugged out brawls gone too far, the perpetrators already locked up with the reports only confirming the rest of the evidence. Routine paperwork.

It didn't take too long for them to be able to leave. As soon as they were out, Molly slipped her hand in Greg's, smiled coyly. He pulled her close, under his arm. Couldn't help his happy, carefree smile. It was casual as long as he knew it was, right?

The meal was a success.

Greg handed Molly a glass of wine and she sat by the table as he cooked. Neither one of them could remember later precisely what they had talked about. But the discussion was lively, witty, funny. The kind of chatting that makes one feel all warm inside. Where agreements are obvious, disagreements insignificant, and the alertness of the partner constant, flattering. Where what is said is interesting and important. Even when it's stupid.

Although Greg insisted it was a really simple dish, Molly was still impressed with his abilities in the kitchen. She wasn't much of a cook. She got her measure of cutting and chopping at work and couldn't be bothered with at home. Not a vegetarian, she still preferred not to cook meat as there was something too familiar in handling it. She made the odd salad now and then, and spiced up her take-away with fresh herbs.

For pudding Greg made a simple dish of berries and custard. Molly liked seeing the patience and care with which he stirred the mixture until it thickened. Perfect.

"That was lovely. I'm stuffed," she said.

"It's nice having someone to cook for. Can't bother for only myself."

"You're welcome to cook for me any time."

Greg raised an eye-brow in question. She smiled.

Toby was forced to give up the sofa as they sat on it. Greg took Molly under his arm. She nuzzled against him. Sighed.

It felt good. Being close to someone. Hearing a heartbeat next to your ear. Feeling the chest move with Greg's breath. She had her arm over his waist, fondling his abdomen absent-mindedly. So warm and safe.

He kissed the top of head. Rested his lips against it.

Molly. You are lovely.

She looked up. He kissed her.

Their lips were not going to settle for cosy. A current of arousal ran through them as they touched.

I want you.

A tongue on lips. A peck of lower lip. A hard pull. Tongues.

I want you.

Greg pulled Molly in his lap. Tore of her shirt, stripped off her bra. Buried his face between her breasts. She cried out, closed her eyes. Started pulling off Greg's sweater. Pressed her breasts against Greg's bare chest. Kissing, touching. Tiny bites.

Hurry.

She got up. Undid her trousers, let them fall around her ankles.

And slowly, slowly, hips rocking from side to side, small circles, she took off her panties. Slid her finger inside of her. A whimper. Spread her moist around her labia, clit.

Greg stared transfixed. She really knew how to drive him crazy.

He got up to take off his pants. To kiss her. Their mouths not getting enough of each other.

A condom on. He sat down, pulled her in his lap. Pushed inside her.

She bit her lip. Bit his shoulder. He gasped.

She rode him. Fast, deep. More.

Bit his neck as she came quavering.

He didn't let her rest. Lifted them up, pressed her against the coffee table and knelt in front of her. Cock inside of her all the time. Fucked her.

Slowly at first, let her calm down, let her build up again. Fondling her clit, kissing her breasts. Her lips.

When she was moaning with want again, he pushed in hard. The table squeaking. Holding on to her hips. Her legs over his shoulders, letting him in, all the way in.

She screamed as they came together. Shaking. Cursing. Jesus Christ. Lights out. Lights blazing.

* * *

They continued like that. A couple of nights a week going to the movies, having dinner. A photography exhibition of Molly's pal. ("Here's Greg, he's a friend of mine." Her other friends smirking. Friend indeed.) And afterwards a night at Molly's. Wondering whether the neighbours would complain soon.

Greg was falling in love. He couldn't help it. Trying to convince his heart of casual was not working. She was smart, funny. They had such enlightening, interesting conversations. They both knew how to listen. How to talk.

She understood his work, why he had to leave sometimes in the middle of the night. Even in the middle of naked things.

The naked things were brilliant. Fantastic. Unbelievable. She certainly knew human anatomy and wasn't afraid of showing it.

Bloody Sherlock. Well. Greg didn't know for sure of course. She didn't really mention him anymore. Or if she did, it was strictly work-related. There was no gushing.

But Sherlock was always hanging around her. (All right, to be honest, not exactly _always_. Once, twice a week if that. Whenever there was an interesting enough body, or he needed to borrow some special equipment he didn't have at Baker Street. She, of course, always let him.) So Greg didn't really know what she felt. But he suspected. Which, as he knew from experience, was much, much worse.

And of course it wasn't 'bloody Sherlock' as much as 'bloody Molly's-feelings-for-Sherlock', since Sherlock was clearly very happy with John. It was evident. There was that special aura about them that lends itself to lovers. A blissful harmony.

If John and Sherlock had understood each other exceptionally well before, it seemed they hardly needed to speak any longer. On crime scenes they passed glances. Little nods. John's meaningful cough. Sherlock's rambling was more and more in the nature of internal monologue and even less actual communication. At some point the two of them always smiled in understanding, turned to leave, and probably would have forgotten to fill Greg in, if he hadn't stood in their way.

No, Sherlock wasn't a real cause for jealousy. Just a shadow of one. Greg tried to grin and bear it best he could.

Some days he was able to be happy with what he had. He did have Molly, sometimes. It had to be enough for now.

On other days he was distressed, even afraid of the future. He wasn't sure his heart could take one more breaking. The pieces had been hard enough to find since the last time.

Occasionally he opened his mouth to say something. To declare his feelings. But shut it seeing Molly's careless and happy face. Maybe. He didn't want to jeopardise what he had now. Didn't want to risk losing it.

* * *

It was one of those rainy days, when you really must have someone to cuddle with by the fire or you will feel desperately alone. With that in mind Greg and Molly had made plans for a night in. They would get naked (first things first), and afterwards order in and watch a DVD.

The day had been quiet at work for Molly. Sherlock dropped by in the afternoon to poke about a recent corpse. The case had been solved, but he was interested in further details.

Greg had come over, too, to browse through some reports. He had some questions he needed to talk over with Molly while he read, and they would leave together.

Sherlock strode in to the lab with a sample as they were leaving, having spent enough time with the badly disfigured victim.

"Did you pack her up?" Molly asked.

"Me?" Sherlock was almost offended by the question.

"Yes, you. The bodies need to be put back in the freezer, you know."

"But… _I_ never do that."

"Well, now's a good time to start. Come on, I'll show you how."

Sherlock followed her out of sheer shock. He couldn't believe it would be up to _him_ to return bodies to the freezer.

Not hiding his indignation he followed Molly's instructions, and the victim was successfully placed in her current resting place.

If this was the treatment he was going to get from now on, Sherlock would have to find another mortuary!

Things got even worse as they were back in the lab, Greg already waiting by the door. Molly took off her white coat and picked up her jacket and bag.

"You can't leave!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Of course I can. Five thirty. My day is done," Molly confirmed.

"But… I need you to run the blood work for me!"

"Is there a life depending on it?"

"Yes," he pouted.

"Right now? Someone will die if I don't do it this instant?"

"Technically not right now," Sherlock had to admit with Greg there to blow his cover, if he would lie. "But maybe in the future, if I don't get the results."

"In that case time isn't an issue, is it? I'll get down to it tomorrow or you can just do it yourself. You know how to use all the equipment, don't you?"

Sherlock was stunned. Speechless. Too dazed to even try saying 'please'. Of course he knew how to use the equipment! That was hardly the point. What was going on with Molly? Why would she do this to him?

"Remember to lock up, when you're done, okay? Bye then!"

This time it was Greg's turn to smile wide at Sherlock.

* * *

"John?"

John looked up from his book.

"I think Molly's gone mad."

"Really?" This was interesting.

"I'm sure of it."

"Why, what's happened?"

"She refused to help me. She made me put a body in the freezer."

John grinned.  
"Good for her. Don't worry, it was bound to happen sooner or later."

"I smiled at her, John! And still she made me run all the tests. On my own."

John put the book down. This demanded his full attention. Lessons in humanity part… well, he'd lost count.

"She's just not into you anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"She helped you with anything you asked, because she had a crush on you. She doesn't anymore."

"But… she has fancied me since… always."

"Sorry, hon, she is over you."

Sherlock sat down in his chair thoroughly shaken. Did this mean that…

"Does this mean that she won't help me even if I smile and say please?"

"I'm afraid so."

"How could this happen?"

"It's not difficult to _deduce_, Sherlock. You turned out gay, took a man as your lover. That alone should make an intelligent woman like Molly to think twice about her warm, fuzzy feelings towards you. Also, lucky for her, she found a good man to comfort her. Someone who is also interested in her. She's in love with Greg, Sherlock."

"In _love_ with him?"

"Yes, I'd say so."

"But he's… he's an idiot, John!"

"Right. Well, my idiocy doesn't stop you from loving me, does it? Love's funny like that."

"Well, no, but. You're you. He's just… _Lestrade_." He said the name as that alone should explain how unworthy of love Greg was.

Sherlock processed the information. This was indeed disturbing.

"What about my work?"

"What about it?"

"If they continue with this… love thing," Sherlock said the word in distaste. He wasn't comfortable with using it in any other context but him and John. "The work will suffer. She won't do what I tell her to. I am used to her input. It leaves me free to think."

"What exactly did she say? That she won't help you ever again?"

"No. She said she would help me _tomorrow_, if there were no lives in immediate danger."

"See? You won't lose her help. You just need to learn some patience."

Sherlock groaned. Now, that was a word he hated.

He was trying to fit all this information on human behaviour somewhere. It was so confusing and irrational. Surely, if one has a crush… He jumped up from his chair.

"John!" he was angry now.

"What?" John asked surprised.

"Are you going to fall out of love with me?!"

"Of course not. Why would you think that?" These discussions sure kept John on his toes.

"Why? _Obviously_ because Molly was in love with me and now she is not!"

Sherlock's logic often failed rather spectacularly when it came to human emotions.

"It's completely different, Sherlock. "

"How?"

"Because I _love_ you. Her crush, or love, if you want to call it that, was just a one-sided fantasy. She needed to move on to something real. You want Molly to be happy, don't you?"

"Suppose so," he grumbled.

"And for that she needed to get over you. It's not going to happen with us. Our love is real. My love for you is real. Built on actually knowing and accepting the good and the bad in you, not closing my eyes to either one."

Did it make sense? It did.  
"Oh," Sherlock understood. "You mean the part about me being an annoying dick?"

"Precisely. Just one of the things I love about you," John got up.

"And she didn't?"

"No. She didn't believe you were," John put his fingers through Sherlock's belt loops.

"Hah – well, she's certainly wrong about that."

"That's what I'm saying. Not real," he pulled Sherlock close.

"Talking about dicks… also something of yours she didn't have a clue about," he kissed Sherlock's neck.

"You certainly have mastered handling that," Sherlock said before their lips met.

"Mmm… I'm not sure. I think I could use more practise."

Although very much disagreeing with John's assessment of his skills, Sherlock was not going to argue. Now would be a good time to try the floor.

* * *

Greg and Molly were wrapped in each other. Warm and sweaty as they waited for the food to arrive.

"Would you say that…" Greg began.

"Yes?"

"What I'm saying is… do you think that…" He didn't want to bring Sherlock up now, but he wanted to know whether... "I mean, I've just wondered about your feelings…"

"Oh."

She smiled in encouragement.

"I'm trying to say… I know we said casual." Pause. He glanced at her worried. She still smiled. "But…" Deep breath, courage. "It's not casual for me anymore."

He rolled to his side to look at her.  
"I love you, Moll."

"I love you too, Greg," she answered without hesitation.

"Do you? Really?"

"Yes. Really."

He kissed her.

"That's great. Excellent."

"I think so, too."

It was a perfect night for lying in the arms of a lover and listening to the rain.

* * *

This, like the rest, first published on AO3, by Avice.


	5. Chapter 5

~Works as a stand alone. Continued the series by Jessie Holmes' request, but only very loosely linked to previous.

**JOHNLOCK EXPLICIT SLASH.**~

John woke up. The green numbers on the digital clock informed him that it was 4:52 am.

If he would have had to guess what had woken him up based on the sounds alone, he would have said that Sherlock was torturing a cat. Possibly several. But since he knew the cool exterior hid a warm and kind heart, he was sure there was some other explanation for the insufferable noise.

He turned over, tried to cover his ears with the pillow. His ear defenders were downstairs, if memory served. There had been the incident with the chainsaw last week, when he had last needed them.

John pondered his options. The noise might end soon allowing him an hour more sleep. But past experience suggested that it might not. In which case he might as well get up as he would wake up at six anyway.

The high-pitched wailing continued.

He sat up, turned on the light and put on his robe while noticing that the other side of the bed hadn't been slept in. Though in no way unusual, it still made him worried and a bit sad even.

John mostly slept in his own room, often alone. Not that he didn't absolutely love falling asleep with Sherlock in his arms in Sherlock's comfy bed. It was the wake ups in the middle of the night, the experiments in the kitchen and the living room, which had to be conducted regardless of the time, and the complete lack of routine, that he could not get used to. Nor did he want to. He wanted to go to bed, sleep the night, get up in the morning, not vary randomly between the three regardless of the hour.

In the event he should fall asleep in Sherlock's bed, he had made Sherlock swear not to disturb him, which was why Sherlock often didn't let him fall asleep. And, yes, there was something to be said in favour of all night sex romps, but there was only so much John could take and definitely not many nights in a row.

John's bed was almost only for sleeping. His room was his and when Sherlock came there, he respected John's space, had done so without asking.

In John's bed they slept in each other's arms the whole night and if Sherlock awoke, he didn't get up, but lay still, holding John until sleep or the morning came.

John did miss Sherlock when he wasn't there.

But the nightmares were another reason why sleeping separately was not wholly unpleasant. Not that John didn't appreciate Sherlock's attempts. Sherlock meant well, he knew that.

But, with sherlockian determination, he had made a case out of comforting John. He had decided to find the perfect method for alleviating John's anxiety and was clearly prepared to test any and all methods to do so. Sometimes John wondered how much of it was scientific curiosity and how much actual caring.

The first time John had had a nightmare since they had started sharing a bed, he had awoken in a choking embrace, and it had been unclear which of them was more distressed. John had had to comfort Sherlock and assure him that he had only been dreaming, that he was fine, everything was fine, and Sherlock didn't need to worry.

The impact of John's dreams and the fact that they were out of his control had shaken Sherlock to the core.

After the first time Sherlock had however been calmer and better prepared. John had not.

Since then John had woken up in Sherlock's arms again, the hold slightly looser, and hearing soothing whispers in his ear.

It hadn't been that bad, though why the tight embrace, and not just a soothing caress, was unclear. But evidently Sherlock hadn't been happy with its efficacy (and John's later assurances of it having been good, great, just what he needed, were disregarded as – apparently – they weren't supported by the evidence. What that evidence was and, more to the point, what it suggested, was not revealed to mere mortals like John.).

After that there had been the talk-only approach, where Sherlock matter-of-factly and monotonously repeated: "Wake up, John, it's only a dream. Wake up, John, it's only a dream." ad infinitum until John, completely awake and calm by then, had told him to shut up so that he could sleep.

The most disturbing so far had been the latest attempt where Sherlock practically sat on him to restrain his legs, held on to his arms and stared at him. That time John's shouts had not ended when he opened his eyes.

John wasn't too keen to find out what would be next. He also hadn't been able to find out the source for these tactics – possibly a psychology book from the 19th century. Why the internet didn't suffice this time was not known to him, and since Sherlock obviously was making an effort, he didn't want to be too harsh. But, frankly, he had started to be a bit afraid of falling asleep next to Sherlock.

John took a deep breath to prepare himself before opening the sitting room door.

Sherlock was talking, to John probably, though nothing could be heard over the insufferable screeching. He smiled absolutely delighted in seeing John, clearly completely oblivious to the fact that John's wake up hadn't been the most pleasant. So happy to see John. So innocent.

The way Sherlock's eyes shone, whole appearance glowed, meant there was no way to be mad at him, John thought almost with regret. He was struck once again by the force of his feelings for Sherlock, his whole being brimming with love, surely visibly radiating from him. As if he had never been in love before. And compared to what he felt now, he hadn't.

However the state of the kitchen was most certainly not something anybody would want to see first thing in the morning – in love or not.

There were no cats, but there was a rotting torso on the table (hadn't they agreed that no body parts that didn't fit in the fridge were to be brought home?), something that looked like an ultrasonic probe and two large speakers (with clear signs of having been pressed against the body), which were blasting the horrendous sound at full volume.

How Sherlock had managed all this during the night was a complete mystery. As far as John could tell they hadn't had this… hmm… sound focusing device? (John had no idea) last night at eleven when he had stepped up the stairs to his room.

The corpse, at least, had definitely not been in the house, that he was sure of. With Molly's sterner approach to Sherlock nowadays, it was unlikely that she would have provided the body in the middle of the night.

Do not ask, if you don't want to know, was a mantra John was used to repeating to himself.

What could possibly be the purpose of this experiment? John wondered as he studied the recent damage done to the body.

He needed his tea.

John looked around and found his ear defenders. He then proceeded to make breakfast after kissing Sherlock in passing; the man's talking hardly stopping when their lips met.

The one good thing with Sherlock's nightly activities was that they always had the papers fresh out of printers'. John started with a quick browse of the Times before glancing over the Metro and the Daily Mail. Nothing of immediate interest for them. Things relatively quiet in Afghanistan as well.

"So, what's all this?" John finally ventured having finished his tea and toast and feeling ready for the day. The noise had stopped and Sherlock was studying the corpse's abdomen keenly.

"I just told you. You never listen," Sherlock sulked.

"I can only listen when I'm present and it's actually possible to hear something."

Sherlock pouted at the incision he was making.

"Please, I will cherish every word," John persuaded him.

Sherlock didn't need much coaxing. There was always the chance John would be amazed.

He had had a wonderful night conducting experiments in sonochemistry on the body. The rotting flesh had proved quite responsive to sonification. Lucky for John, most of the night had been spent with ultrasound and the speakers had come in later.

"The results will be very useful if we ever come across a body in, say, an industrial site with heavy machinery or a night club," Sherlock said satisfied with the night's work. "Though I don't think there'd be much need for me on a club OD."

"Great, good to hear you had a productive night."

Sherlock didn't catch the sarcasm in John's voice as his phone beeped.

"Ah, week's first body. Excellent," Sherlock announced and grabbed his coat.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm? Let's go!"

"Maybe you'd like to wear something else?"

It took a half-second of bafflement before Sherlock realised he had indeed changed into pyjamas sometime last night, unnecessary as it may have been.

"Sherlock, let me get the door open – ," John tried to protest when they finally returned home that night.

"But I want you now," Sherlock panted toppling them over against the sitting room floor. Nimble fingers on John's belt, anxious lips on his.

There was just enough room for the door to close behind them as the buttons of John's jeans opened and trousers and undies were pushed lower.

"Christ, Sherlock," he cursed excited when Sherlock's fist wrapped around him. He was hard, ready. The taxi ride had made sure of that.

Sherlock was a master in inconspicuous caresses. Must be the violin playing. Or the lock picking.

They were fumbling each other's clothes off best they could. Lips, hands, fingers brushing where possible.

Sherlock not releasing the hold on John's cock for one second, stroking him steadily. John not being able to reach Sherlock's but tearing his hair, fondling his arms.

Finally naked Sherlock pressed himself against John, sighing with pleasure feeling John, all of John against him, on his skin.

John kissed his neck, bit. Bucking himself up against Sherlock.

He took a hold of Sherlock's buttocks, nape, and rolled them over, getting on top of Sherlock. The way he liked it.

Looked into Sherlock's eyes for affirmation. Got it.

Sherlock lifted his legs, hips. John reached for his trousers, found a lube pack in the pocket. Stroked Sherlock with the now slick fingers. Lubed himself.

In.

Moaning in ecstasy. In Sherlock. He slowed down. No hurry anymore. Kissed Sherlock softly on the lips. Careful pushes. Enjoying every inch. Sherlock pulling him deeper. Wanting more.

John grazed Sherlock's chest with his teeth. Loved the symmetry of his body, adored it.

He took Sherlock in his hand and stroked him.

Sherlock bit his lip, eyes fluttering, the neck tilting back. Gorgeous.

Faster. Sherlock gasping, reciting the numbers of pi to steady himself. Voice shaking, husky. A strange and captivating chant of his lust. Making John want him all the more.

Until his voice stalled, a tight, quiet 'ah' on his lips. Cum on John's fingers.

A quaver sending John over, his wet palm pressing against Sherlock's hip. A curse. Always the same. Quiet.

Resting. Gentle, light caresses. _You._ Satisfied, hazy smiles.

"Come sleep upstairs?" John asked.

"Mmm. I am a bit tired, you know."


	6. Chapter 6

There they were. The drones far in the horizon. The bullets close. Explosions closer. So much blood. Screams. Gadberry's face. What was left of it. The eye staring in surprise. The dark eye frozen in wonder. Caught.

The infernal pain on his shoulder. Shouting. His shouting. Cold.

Something on his face. What? What was it? He couldn't… It held on strong, he couldn't shake it off.

Forgot about the shoulder, he needed to… had to be rid of it. Struggled.

Hands, someone's arms. Tried to wring them off him.

Slowly the reality took over. He heard his own shouting. The panic in it. Usually he woke up to the quiet. He couldn't stop now.

Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands on his face, barely touching, but not letting go either. His own hands on Sherlock's arms, trying to push him away.

"Sherlock, for Christ' sake!" John cried out, "The nightmares are bad enough without your help." Enough was enough.

Sherlock pulled back. Astonished.

John didn't have the energy to care. His pulse still elevated by the terror, his back soaked with sweat. He rolled to his side, away from Sherlock.

"Please... just... leave me alone."  
He needed to calm down. Breathe.  
Damn it. Breathe.  
Shit. The hands on his face. He shuddered.

So that's how it was. John didn't need him. Didn't want him. Preferred to be alone. Fine.  
Let him suffer his nightmares just as he pleased.

Sherlock banged the door shut behind him. He wouldn't have trouble finding things to do. Not like he _needed_ to be sleeping next to John right now.

No, he had matters to attend to.

He could… yes, now would be a good time to visit the unsolved cases in his mind palace.

Mostly he knew who was guilty, only the proof was lacking. He would go over them again and find out what evidence needed to be found, or if he already knew that, where it could be found.

With a plan of action in place, Sherlock lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes and put his palms together.

John could very well keep his sweaty bed and bad dreams. He didn't mind _not_ occupying his mind with possible cures for them.

Sherlock walked along the marble coated hallways of his palace feeling calmer. He kept the place tidy and organised, so that everything was easy and quick to find when needed. Only his own footsteps echoed in the corridors.

The atmosphere was soothing.

Something moved in the corner of his mind. As if he wasn't alone. He focused. There was definitely someone in his palace, just around the corner. He took a few hurried steps.

John.

No, no, no, John didn't belong in this part of the palace! Absolutely not. Swiftly he chased the thoughts of John to the recent extension that was dedicated to things of John.

Such disorganisation was unheard-of.

He refocused. The Harrington case.

It had been the father of course. Unable to handle his daughter growing up and having a boyfriend; splitting up their small family, as he saw it. There had been financial trouble as well. The man had been stressed, drinking, not sleeping well. John needed his sleep too, completely lost what little wits he had about him, if he didn't get his seven hours.

Wonder if John had managed to fall asleep again? Should he go and check?

Feet already half-way down, Sherlock stopped. No. John didn't need him. Had been definite. Leave.

The Harrington case… the father. The local police had been incompetent and not put out the fire, where the father had been burning rubbish. So the evidence… John often said it burned in his sleep. Had told him about the smell of gunpowder. The smell of gun wounds. Said it was one of the worst parts about his dreams, the smells. They made everything so real.

He hadn't found a cure for John yet, but he would. The next thing he was going to try would probably… wait. Wait.

He got up. What was going on? He couldn't focus? No. He was always able to focus. Always.

Except when he hadn't been with John yet. And that was now in order.

Or was it? John had pushed him away. Told him to leave him alone. Were they now... not together anymore? Was that why John was bothering him in his mind palace again?

Had he been… dumped? Astounded he stopped his pacing.

He couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. John had promised. Said to be his always. And now this.

Asking to be left alone. Refusing his help.

He was furious. How John dared! How could John think he had the right to leave... a catch like Sherlock! Good looking, intelligent. If John thought he would ever find anyone better, he was sorely mistaken.

Sherlock did have his faults. Admittedly he didn't always pick up on all the clues immediately. Like with the Harrington case.

And he was forced to concede that his sonochemistry experiment had not been exactly ground breaking. Just interesting to see for himself.

Worst of all, John still suffered from nightmares. He hadn't been able to help. Wasn't smart enough for that. A man like John... well, he could get anyone he wanted, couldn't he? Maybe he had had enough of Sherlock's failings?

It twisted in his stomach. A pain turning his insides. He felt sick. Was he becoming ill?

He really didn't feel good. Sat down.

Best go to bed. Get some sleep.

Even if… even if they weren't together John would still help him through his illness. Wouldn't he? He wasn't going to… leave Baker Street or anything like that? He couldn't.

Sherlock felt worse. A sickening bile in his mouth.

He went to his bedroom posture hunched. Settled down hugging his knees to his chest. He felt really ill.

It was ominously quiet when John woke up. Hadn't Sherlock been by his side some time during the night?

Oh, right. The nightmare. The damned hands. What had that been all about? They would really have to talk. Even if Sherlock would be upset, he would have to be told.

Peeking in Sherlock's bedroom, he saw the detective sleeping peacefully. He tip-toed in and caressed Sherlock's head softly. Went to put the kettle on and enjoyed the quiet morning.

It was not until lunchtime when Sherlock's feeble voice finally called out for John.

"What is it? Everything all right?" John looked in the bedroom worried.

"I don't feel well."

John placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead. Didn't feel a temperature. But the man did look pale.

"What's wrong?"

"My stomach hurts. As if someone was twisting my insides."

John had never seen Sherlock looking so weak, almost defeated. He really had to be in pain.

"Have you been sick? Had diarrhoea?"

Receiving a negative to both, John felt around Sherlock's abdomen, but could not find anything wrong and no particular part seemed to hurt more than any other.

"Hmm. Well, must be just a bug. You stay in bed for the day. Do you feel up to eating something? That might help."

"No," he really couldn't get anything down, even if he would want to.  
Had this been the last time he would ever feel John's hands on his body?

"I'll get you a cup of tea."

Would it be the last cup of tea? He was lying down but still felt dizzy as he listened to John moving in the kitchen.

"Here you are, honey," John placed the steaming mug by the bed.  
Poor Sherlock, white as a ghost. They would need to discuss the nightmare cures another time.

Honey? John still called him honey. Was it only what he was used to now? Or did it mean something?

"Do you want to watch the telly? I can bring it over," John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Anything else you'd want me to do to make you feel better?"

_Don't leave me._

"No."

John sat down on the bed. Stroked Sherlock's cheek. Straightened out the curls from his face.

Sherlock sighed, placed his hand on John's. Held it against his face.

"John?"

"Hm?"

Sherlock picked up his courage – as if he had ever been afraid: "Are you still… mine?"

"Of course! Why wouldn't I be?" John asked.

"You told me to leave."

"What do you mean? When?"

"Last night. Told me to leave you alone."

John was perplexed. He was quite sure he had not been breaking up with Sherlock last night. Or ever. And was not going to.

"Oh, you mean when you tried to help me with the nightmares?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Don't worry about it. We can talk when you're feeling better," John assured him.

"No, let's talk now," Sherlock insisted.

"Alright," John gave in. Sherlock had started to look slightly better. "Look, the thing is, I realise you're trying to help. But what you are doing is not helping. It's only making things worse."

"How could I be making it worse? I am not responsible for your dreams."

"No, but usually when I wake up, I feel better. Lately, with you, I've been more scared waking up than in the dream."

It did not make any sense to Sherlock. How could his presence scare John?

Then again, John had seemed terrified last night. The hands might not have been a good idea after all. Also the constraining cure had resulted in an unmistakable note of panic in John's voice. There had also been evident annoyance from John when repeating calming phrases.

"You want me to stop helping you?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, yes, please. If you want to do something, you can just hold me, but I don't want any more of these cures you've been trying."

"But you will continue to have the dreams, John. I don't see how that'll help," he tried to argue.

"Trust me, I can deal with the dreams if they are over when I wake up."

Sherlock shrugged.  
"Fine, if that's what you want."

"It is," John confirmed. "And I am yours, always. Don't worry about that."

Sherlock felt a lot better. Actually, his stomach did not hurt at all anymore.

"Huh, you are not that bad a doctor. I feel better. Great, as a matter of fact."

John burst out laughing.  
"Who's the one with psychosomatic symptoms now?"

Sherlock huffed insulted: "I don't see what you mean."

John kissed him, caressed his cheek: "Nothing, hon, nothing."

Sherlock's fingers grabbed the back of his head, pulled him close. Eager lips on his. A tongue making its way into his mouth.

The waves of lust rising again, washing over them. They surrendered, willingly.

John got up, undressed slowly with Sherlock's eyes on him, a pleased flicker in them.

"You should always be naked, John. Always."

"Then you'd miss watching me undress," John said, tossing his undies in the corner.

"Ah, true, that would be a loss indeed," Sherlock admitted pulling John on the bed, under him and bit his chest gently.

His hands wandered on John's body. It was so familiar by now, he knew it all and yet it was full of new discoveries, always a new land for him to explore, to conquer.

His lips nibbled along the chest, the abdomen, John relaxing under his touch.

John tensing under his touch. His body becoming wired, sensitive to the slightest brush of Sherlock's fingers, lips, a curl brushing his flank.

His hips bucking up. For Sherlock.

Sherlock slid his tongue along the hard cock. Took it in his mouth, let his tongue run along it. John took a hold of his head, pushed him closer.

He fondled the insides of John's thighs, cupped his balls and sucked eager, determined. Hungry.

John's breath shallow, sharp. Muffled moans he tried to hold back.

Wrapping a fist around the shaft of John's cock, Sherlock took him in even deeper. All the way, pumped him with his hand, mouth. John's fingers pulling his hair. Holding on tight.

A long sigh.

Sherlock didn't waste any time. He was desperate for John. Kissed him deep on the mouth. Let John taste himself as he fumbled for the lube on the bedside table and hands almost shaking stretched John with his fingers.

John, deep in post-orgasmic haze, spread out his arms, lifted his hips, let Sherlock in.

He pushed in slow, but deep. Caught his breath. John tight around him, hips up against him.

Sherlock came with a violent shudder as if someone turned all the lights off and back on again, a current forcing its way through him. Making him stop, making time stop. A moment frozen outside of reality.

He fell against John, pressed his face against John's chest for a minute, before rolling off him. Stayed close, as close as he could. Calming down. Wanting to feel John's skin against his.

John wrapped an arm around him. The moment stretching on, peaceful without an end.

Finally Sherlock moved, let their sticky skins get some air.

"I do have one more idea, though, John."

"Hmm?"

"For the nightmares, next time – ".

"No."

"But – ".

"No, Sherlock. No. No. No. No."

John's laughter filled the room, filled Sherlock with happiness.


End file.
